


equal temperament

by regrettably



Category: Khiphop, Show Me the Money (Korea TV)
Genre: M/M, dudes drinking and touching their dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regrettably/pseuds/regrettably
Summary: Changmo and Hash Swan chill after the Show Me the Money hype dies down.





	equal temperament

**Author's Note:**

> this may be the fuckin dumbest thing I've ever written and I've written a lot of dumb fuckin things
> 
>  
> 
> gonna lock this soon so changmo doesn't have an aneurysm

 

 

“Sure you’re okay with just chillin’ here?”

 

“Sure.  Been a while since I’ve had a night in.”  Changmo’s still kicking off his shoes but Deokkwang’s already made himself comfortable, cross-legged on his couch.  “You kinda look like you could do with one, too.”

 

“Yeah, man.”  Changmo nods.

 

He’s always been busy since he signed with Ambition.  A good kind of busy.  Meetings, recordings, photoshoots, parties, clubs.  The kind of busy that’s propelled him to wealth and fame. But this. This.

 

Everything that’s happened since Show Me the Money has been a lot.  Being the youngest producer was exciting.  Amazing.  Nerve-wracking.  A lot.  The piano in his head’s been playing a lot more atonal than he’d like lately, twelve notes where there used to only be seven.  

 

“Feel like I haven’t slept in like… fuckin’ years.”

 

Besides.

 

Deokkwang hugs his knees to his chest.  “You sorta look like it too.”

 

Besides.

 

“‘Scuse me?  Who was sleeping in the studio today?”

 

Deokkwang’s grin comes after a full five second delay.  “Listening to you do the same line for a good hour was pretty boring.”

 

Jinyoung said at some party a few days back that Deokkwang seems kind of out of it lately.  And it was weird to hear that from Jinyoung, because Jinyoung hasn’t really been here long enough to tell.  But hearing it from the boss, The Quiett himself, this morning?  Even weirder.

 

He didn’t say that there was something wrong.  That something had happened or anything.  Just that Deokkwang’s been a little distracted.

 

“Man, that even fuckin’ bored me.”  Changmo pads across his shiny floor in his socks.  “You sure you just wanna hang with me, though? We could call Hyoeun, or… we could get some girls or something?”

 

Deokkwang shakes his head against his thighs.  “Nah, ‘s good. I’m cool with just keepin’ it low key.”

 

Changmo frowns.

 

See, nothing’s wrong.  

 

Deokkwang’s like he always is here.  Taking advantage of his genuine leather couch.  Running his fingers down the chrome and glass of his expensive coffee table.  Staring at the upright piano that’s admittedly too big for the space.  Probably already imagining what it’s going to be like to watch Changmo’s new TV, almost 200 centimeters wide.

 

Changmo took him here because he’s always liked coming to Changmo’s.  Always says it’s like coming to a real rockstar’s place. But.

 

But Changmo can count the number of time Deokkwang’s said no to girls on one hand.  And all of those times something was very wrong.

 

So.

 

“‘kay, all good.  That sounds good.”  Changmo heads for the kitchen area.  “Tell me you wanna drink, at least.”

 

Deokkwang smiles over the back of the couch.  “Whatcha got?”

 

“I dunno, uh… tequila?  Bombay Blue? Beer? Soju?  Whiskey?”

 

Deokkwang peeks out at him, bangs in his eyes.  “How ‘bout… everything?”

 

Changmo laughs.  Deokkwang does too.  

 

“...we can do everything.”

 

And they do, foreign imports lined up beside dollar bottles of soju on the table.  Whatever’s left in Changmo’s cupboards.  Shrimp chips, pringles, coffee peanuts.  Changmo sinks into the couch next to Deokkwang and never wants to move again.  

 

They order chicken and watch American action movies.  Take a shot whenever somebody dies.

 

They bicker over posts of shoes on Instagram and Deokkwang shoves pictures of his dog in Changmo’s face.  

 

“This is cool.”  Changmo says, down three bottles of soju and an uncertain number of tequilas with calamansi soda.  It is cool, smoothed out to jazz chords, dominant sevenths and augmented ninths. “When’s the last time we hung out?”

 

“Dunno, man.”  Deokkwang pours them another round.  He dribbles soju on Changmo’s table. “You’ve been busy.”

 

The glass almost slips from Deokkwang’s fingers when he tips his head back to swallow.  He doesn’t chase with water.

 

“Little too busy.”  Changmo chuckles as Deokkwang leans into his shoulder.  He lets him stay there because he’s tired and Deokkwang’s warm.  “Missed sleeping. And chilling.”

 

“Well, ‘m not going anywhere.”  Deokkwang mumbles, sounds half-asleep.

 

Maybe it’s an internet thing.  Whatever it is that’s eating him.

 

If it is, Changmo understands.  It’s stupid to let stupid people online get to him.  But they do. They do, they do.

 

He wants to just sit on the couch and watch dumb shows and hide out here more often than he’d ever admit.

 

And he doesn’t even look like Deokkwang does.  So he knows he can’t really feel all the hate, can’t ever really get it.

 

“S’good.”  Changmo swirls his drink, watches it slosh all up against the sides of his glass.  “‘Cause I don’t think I can go anywhere either.”

 

They’re about halfway through a netflix documentary on weed and a sixth or seventh bottle of soju when Deokkwang slumps face-first into Changmo’s lap.

 

“Yo, Deokkwang…” Changmo puts a hand on Deokkwang’s back.  “Deokkwang-ah…”

 

He’s pretty sure Deokkwang’s done for the night, but a couple of gentle shakes has him rolling onto his back and groaning, hair flopping in his face.

 

“Deokkwang, man… y’good?”  Changmo brushes Deokkwang’s hair off his forehead, it spills across his thighs in an auburn-permed halo.  “I like the hair, by the way.”

 

Deokkwang laughs, loud, looks right up at Changmo and flashes that one weird tooth in a way he usually wouldn’t.  

 

Then his smile fades and he stares past Changmo, up at the high ceiling.  “Yeah man, m’good.”

 

“Really though?”  Changmo twirls a long curl of Deokkwang’s hair idly between thumb and forefinger.  “If something’s up, y’know… anything… you know you can tell me, right?”

 

“Yeah, I know.  I’m good. Really… ‘s just…”

 

“‘s just what?”

 

Deokkwang screws up his eyebrows, like he’s focusing really hard on the empty space above Changmo’s head.  

 

“I guess… I got what I wanted, but… it doesn’t feel all that good?  Like I’m not being, uh, honest about it, or something?”

 

Changmo’s had too much alcohol and not enough sleep for this kind of cryptic crap.  “Bruh, what are you talking about?”

 

Deokkwang struggles to his knees, swaying.  He chews on his bottom lip, stained red with sauce from the chicken, and draws himself up enough that he’s able to look Changmo in the eyes.  Changmo’s lap goes cold but the back of his neck is hot.

 

“I mean…” Deokkwang’s slurring and his hands are shaking again.  Changmo puts a palm on his shoulder to steady him.  Deokkwang shudders.  “If I tell you, you’ve got to promise not to tell. Anybody. Promise.”

 

Changmo laughs.  “Yeah man. I promise.”

 

Deokkwang inches forward on the couch and leans close enough that Changmo can count all the moles speckled across his face.

 

His breath fans onto Changmo’s cheek, hot with alcohol and fish snacks.  Changmo chuckles again, gripping Deokkwang tighter so he doesn’t fall on his head.  He hasn’t seen Deokkwang this fucked up since they first started partying together.  “Bruh, what are you doin’?”

 

Deokkwang opens his mouth but nothing comes out.  Changmo gives him a little push, and he nods, finding his voice.

 

“I’m trying to tell you something.”  Deokkwang whispers.

 

And then he’s coming in, and in, and in.  Like, their faces are close, so close, so _so_ close.  And then they’re touching.  Deokkwang’s lips are touching Changmo’s.  They’re kissing.  Deokkwang is kissing Changmo.

 

Deokkwang.  Is kissing.  Changmo.

 

For once the piano in Changmo’s head is dead silent and every part of his brain that isn’t fucked up is screaming _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_.  But.  But.

 

But his body hasn’t caught up with his brain, or his brain can’t catch up to his body.  

 

Or maybe his brain is mostly just fucked up or something.  

 

Because Deokkwang feels good.  His lips are burning hot and he tastes calamansi soda sweet and alcohol bitter and drunk and drunk and drunk.

 

He pulls back, cheeks pink and eyes all wide, and just stares at Changmo like he’s expecting the world to end.

 

It doesn’t because Changmo is drunk too.  Drunk. Drunk. Drunk.

 

Drunk enough that right now, he can roll with it.  

 

So he kisses Deokkwang back.  And better.  Deokkwang only gave him a taste, a little press of his little lips up against Changmo’s.  Changmo leans in and gives him a real kiss, hot and eager, and Deokkwang does this small surprised yelp into his mouth.  They fumble, a few awkward, searching kisses, Changmo’s face large against Deokkwang’s.  Then his nose slots near perfect against Deokkwang’s cheek and Deokkwang’s lips part and everything just works.

 

Deokkwang’s teeth tug on Changmo’s bottom lip and he tangles his hands in Deokkwang’s perm.  They’re making out, tongues and everything, and it feels good, so good, because Deokkwang feels so hot, but sort of bad and wrong because they’re friends, man, but that’s sort of exciting in a way that Changmo’s never felt before.  And the way Deokkwang clings to him when he sticks his tongue down his throat is kind of hot and kind of wrong and kind of cute.  And Deokkwang’s cute, he’s always been so cute, so this is okay. Isn’t it?

 

Deokkwang moans, all soft and needy, and Changmo feels it in his dick.  So this is okay.  This is really okay.

 

“Fuck…” Changmo groans, right against Deokkwang’s lips, Deokkwang moans again, and Changmo has to have him closer.

 

He wraps his fingers around Deokkwang’s tiny waist and pulls him so he’s sitting right _there_ , his legs straddling Changmo’s lap.  God, that feels so good too, Deokkwang’s slight weight right on his crotch.  He rocks his hips up into Deokkwang’s and Deokkwang fucking _gasps_.  He does it again, and again, and again, and Deokkwang pants into his mouth and scrabbles his fingernails into his back and Changmo is hard.  Like, so hard.  Rock hard, just from rubbing his clothed dick into Deokkwang’s.

 

He wonders if he’s going to get off like this, dry-humping like he’s still a desperate teenager, because he honestly thinks he could, but then.

 

“Holy shit, Deokkwang…!”

 

Deokkwang shoves a hand down the front of his pants, and.  Fuck.  Holy fuck.

 

Deokkwang’s hand is so small he can barely wrap all the way around but for some reason that’s hot.  So hot.  He jerks Changmo in his sweat-slick palm, frantic, staccato.  Maybe if things were different it’d be too fast, but right now, right now it’s so good and their foreheads are pressed together and Deokkwang’s curls are stuck to his face and Changmo wants him to whisper that dirty shit he’s always rapping about right into his mouth.  

 

He can’t though because Changmo can’t stop kissing him.  He sips from Deokkwang’s lips like he hasn’t had a drink all night and he wants to kiss every mole on his face and lick the tattoo on his neck and rip his shirt to the side and suck on his little collarbones and he wants to cum.  Most of all.  He wants to cum.  He bucks his hips up into Deokkwang’s hands, messy, no rhythm, one more, one more, one more, and he’s going to, going to.

 

“Deokkwang, Deokkwang, fuck-”

 

Changmo cums.  In his pants, on Deokkwang’s hand.  He doesn’t care because it feels just as good as any lipsticked, stilettoed, hanging out behind an Itaewon club orgasm ever has.  He laughs and kisses Deokkwang on the jaw, leaves the sour smell of soju on his skin.  And he reaches out, breathless, for Deokkwang, for the waistband of his sweats.  He can’t stop smiling.  Deokkwang’s smiling too, glassy-eyed, staring at Changmo’s cum on his fingers.  It’s all so funny that they’re doing this, that right now he’s brushing over the bulge in Deokkwang’s pants with his thumb, that he’s going to touch Deokkwang’s dick.  

 

Except he’s not.  Because he goes to pull down Deokkwang’s pants and Deokkwang freezes.

 

“Um…”  Deokkwang’s smile goes lopsided.

 

“What’s-”

 

“I’ve gotta go.”

 

“You’ve gotta what?”

 

But Deokkwang’s already clambered off his lap, slid off the couch, and is stumbling to the door.

 

“Bruh, wait!  What’s going on?”

 

Deokkwang’s having a hard time putting on his shoes, but Changmo’s having a harder time pulling up his pants and getting off the couch.

 

“Fuck, wait up!  Deokkwang! Come on, man!”

 

But Deokkwang just shakes his head.  He doesn’t even look at Changmo as he staggers out the front door.

 

“Deokkwang!”  Changmo shouts in his empty apartment.

 

This is piano equivalent of slamming the lid shut on his own fingers.  

 

He doesn’t understand.  What just happened, why he’s got cum drying on the inside of his thighs, how Deokkwang’s going to get home when he’s that fucked up, what the fuck, why the fuck, how the fuck.  

 

He tries to call Deokkwang, and Deokkwang doesn’t pick up.  He spams messages that don’t really make sense and for the most part are a combination of _fuck_ , _what_ , and _come back_.

 

But Deokkwang doesn’t, and in the end, he’s alone.

 

The next thing Changmo knows, his face is in the leather of his couch and he smells terrible and he’s got a splitting headache and also it’s four in the fucking afternoon.  

 

He looks at his phone and there’s a ton of notifications that are probably important but none of them are from Deokkwang.  In his head someone’s slamming down on one key over and over and over again. F-sharp, _fortississimo_.

 

So then it’s crawl off the couch, chug straight from a two-litre of orange juice, nearly puke up two litres of orange juice, shower, hit head on the shower wall and spend five minutes swearing on the wet tile floor, clean clothes, can’t find a hairbrush, dust mask, car keys, can’t drive, call a taxi, force one foot in front of the other until he’s hammering on the door of Deokkwang’s apartment.

 

“Come on man, I know you’re in there!”  Changmo doesn’t really, but he’s got to hope.  “Open up!”

 

Nobody comes to the door.  He knocks until his knuckles hurt and he’s sure the neighbours are going to be calling the police any minute and he’s going to end up as one of the top searches for the day on Naver but Deokkwang.  Deokkwang.  He has to talk to Deokkwang.

 

“Fuck!  Deokkwang, just…”  His voice cracks. “...please.”

 

He presses his forehead into the cool metal of the door and gives it one last hard slam with his fist.  This time someone answers.

 

“Fuck off.”  

 

Changmo reacts immediately.  “You fuck off!  No.  Shit.  Wait.”

 

“Just leave me alone!”

 

“...Deokkwang!  Man, please. Just let me in.  You know I’m not gonna go away.”

 

There’s a long silence except for F-sharp, F-sharp, F-sharp.

 

Changmo wants to smash his own head into the door.  “Like, come on! I just want to talk! Do you really wanna see this all over the fuckin’ internet tonight?”

 

It’s quiet.  Then the door swings open and there’s Deokkwang.

 

His eyes are dark and puffy and his hair is an auburn mess, ringlets in all directions.  He’s got a blanket around his shoulders and he’s in slippers and a shirt so long it makes him look like he’s not really wearing shorts.  Changmo’s cheeks turn hot and then he’s nauseous.

 

Deokkwang doesn’t say anything, just glares.  Changmo steps inside and feels very small even though next to Deokkwang he’s huge.

 

Chacha yaps at him from a corner of the couch.  Good, even the dog seems to hate him right now.

 

He doesn’t know where to be.  Feels like he shouldn’t sit, feels like shit standing.  Too big, too small, an intruder in the middle of all of Deokkwang’s personal space.  Empty shoe boxes and tangled cords and price tags cut off sweatshirts.

 

Changmo wrings his hands together.  His ring finger twitches.  F-sharp. “So-”

 

“Hyung.” Deokkwang interrupts.  “Whatever you want, I’ll do it. You want me to never come near you again?  I swear, you won’t even see me at the studio, not once.  You want me to leave Ambition?  I’ll call DokII right now!  But please, please, don’t make me explain what happened-”

 

“The fuck you talkin’ bout?”  Changmo steps in, but Deokkwang flinches away.  Curls in on himself.  Like he’s scared Changmo’s going to hit him or something.  Changmo thinks he might throw up. “I don’t want you to do any of that shit!”

 

“Then what the fuck are you here for?”

 

“I’m here because I don’t fucking understand!”  Changmo has to jam his hands under his armpits to stop from reaching out.  “Anything!  Like, I’m sorry, but… I thought you liked girls, man.  Like… really, _really_ liked girls.”

 

“I do!  I do really, really like girls!”  Deokkwang’s shout drops to a whisper.  “I just… I really, _really_ like you too.”

 

Changmo’s mouth goes dry.  F-sharp, sixteen bars tied, pedal to the floor.

 

Deokkwang squeezes his eyes shut and pulls his blanket tight.  “-and I’m sorry! I thought I could live with it and I was cool with just being friends and, Hyung, everything was so cool!  Then you weren’t really around like before but last night you were there again... and it was just us and... I had to go and fuck up everything!  Like, really fuck it up!  You were so drunk and I was fucked up too and I didn’t think it’d go like that and I feel, like, fucking disgusting for doing that to you and like I know I can never be sorry enough and-”

 

F-sharp, F-sharp, F-sharp, F-sharp, F-sharp, F-sharp.

 

Changmo‘s head is going to explode.

 

“-Deokkwang.  Chill.”

 

Deokkwang’s eyes snap open, wide and angry.  “Chill?  Chill?!”

 

“Yeah.  Chill.  Please.” Changmo presses his palms to his temples, prays for some sort of relief.  “Just… just tell me why you left.  Why’d you go, man?”

 

“Are you fuckin’ stupid?”

 

Changmo’s ring finger spasms.  “I don’t know, maybe?”

 

“What I did to you… how could I let you do that to me?” Deokkwang’s face is flushed, red blotches under his moles.  “You’d never forgive yourself!”

 

F-sharp is screeching out of tune, spiralling up and up and up until.  Until.  “Okay, I think I must be a fuckin’ idiot then!  ‘Cause I don’t get what you’re saying!”

 

“Look.”  Deokkwang’s pupils are blown big and black and his blanket slips from his shoulders.  It falls in a crumpled heap around his slippers. “Even if… even if you were into guys, why would you be into me?”

 

The wire for F-sharp snaps.

 

“Hyung.  Look at you.  Even if you weren’t all famous and shit, you could still get with anyone you want.”  Deokkwang does this sad crooked smile. “And look at me.”

 

It’s quiet, finally.  So Changmo can look.

 

Deokkwang is just Deokkwang.  The crown of his head barely reaches Changmo’s shoulders.  He’s got frizzy bedhead, speckled skin.  Thin lips, tiny jaw.  Bony arms, slim legs.  Weird teeth.  Tattooed knuckles.  Hungover as shit.

 

And just Deokkwang is.  Well.

 

“We both know I’d be, like, a fuckin’ virgin if I didn’t rap.”  Deokkwang keeps going, doing something that’s probably supposed to be laughing but sounds more like crying.  “And like, there’s doing stupid stuff while drunk and all, and I was being, uh, shitty.  And selfish.  And stupid.  But even then, I couldn’t let you do something that stupid.... not with someone like me. So I had to leave, or else-”

 

“I think you’re hot.”  Changmo blurts.

 

It’s Deokkwang’s turn to just stand there and stare.

 

“Like, so fucking hot.” Changmo surprises himself.  Deokkwang doesn’t have hair down to his tits or long legs or a skirt that rides up his ass but.  But saying it feels right, so.  So.  “That’s why I didn’t understand!  ‘Cause last night, like… I was having a good time, and I thought you were having a good time, and then you just fuckin’ ran away!  And I… I… I didn’t want you to go!”

 

Changmo takes a step forward and Deokkwang doesn’t move.  His eyes shine like spilt vodka on a VIP table. Wet and glazed.

 

“I… look.  Fuck.  I don’t know what we are now or how things are gonna be, but…” It might be right, but Changmo’s face still feels like it’s trying to match the same shade of red as Deokkwang’s.  “...but, what we did last night?  I’d like to do it again sometime.  And, uh, more.  If you want to.”

 

Deokkwang blinks.  A lot.

 

He musses up his hair so his bangs fall in his eyes and he stares at the floor and Changmo can barely see the one long tear that tracks all shiny down his cheek.

 

“You _are_ fuckin’ stupid.”  Deokkwang mumbles. “‘Course I want to.”

 

Changmo thinks about all it usually takes, flexing Rolexes and chains.  Louis Vuitton and Porsches. And he laughs.

 

He takes Deokkwang’s hand.  Their fingers slot together pretty nice.  Then he hugs him because, well, he wants to.  Hands clasped, face into shoulder.  Like bros do, but tighter.  Deokkwang doesn’t pull away.

 

He laughs too.  Tiny shoulders shaking and face pressed into Changmo’s chest.  Changmo ignores that his shirt feels kind of wet because he finds out that he’s just the right height to rest his chin on Deokkwang’s head.  Like maybe it’s sort of meant to be or something.

 

They don’t move for a long time.  It’s quiet, Chacha scratching his ears and the hum of Deokkwang’s desktop.  And then a low gurgle that shakes against Changmo’s hip.

 

“Can we order pizza?”  Deokkwang sniffs.  He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.  Changmo wants to kiss him.

 

Instead he looks for steel wire in his head.  Same gauge as the F-sharp. “Fuck yeah, we can.”

 

They share cigarettes on the balcony while they wait for the food, grinning and shaking ash into the dust that blankets early evening Seoul.

 

Then they eat pizza side by side on Deokkwang’s couch and watch High School Rapper reruns.  Chacha sits on Changmo’s lap.  It kind of feels just like hanging out before did except now Deokkwang’s legs are thrown over Changmo’s.

 

Restringing a piano takes a long time.  The strings are huge and stiff, tuning is slow, and any string that’s replaced has got to be tuned again and again over the course of months to get it stretched just right.

 

But when Deokkwang gives him a look out of the corner of his eye, smiles kind of wicked around a slice of pepperoni and sweet potato, and takes Changmo’s hand and puts it up real high on his bare thigh, well.  Well.

 

He’d better get tuning.

 

 


End file.
